See, viceroy, he hath bitten forth his tongue,
Rather than to reveal what we requir❜d.
Castile. Yet can he write.
King. And if in this he satisfy us not, We will devise th' extremest kind of death That ever was invented for a wretch.
[He makes signs for a knife to mend his pen. Castile. O, he would have a knife to mend his pen. Viceroy. Here, and advise thee that thou write the troth.
Look to my brother, save Hieronimo.
[He with the knife stabs the duke and himself. King. What age hath ever heard such monstrous deeds?
My brother and the whole succeeding hope
That 311 Spain expected after my decease-
Go bear his body hence, that we may mourn
The loss of our beloved brother's death,
That he may be entomb'd whate'er befal :
I am the next, the nearest, last of all.
Viceroy. And thou, don Pedro, do the like for us:
Take up our hapless son, untimely slain :
Set me with him, and he with woeful me,
Upon the main-mast of a ship unmann'd,
And let the wind and tide hale me along;
To Sylla's barking and untamed gulph;
Or to the loathsome pool of Acheron,
To weep my want 912 for my sweet Balthazar:
Spain hath no refuge for a Portingale.
[The trumpets sound a dead march; the king of Spain mourning after his brother's body; and the king of Portingale bearing the body of his son.
Enter GHOST and REVENGE.
Ghost. Aye, now my hopes have end in their effects, When blood and sorrow finish my desires.
Horatio murder'd in his father's bower;
Vile Serberine by Pedringano slain;
False Pedringano hang'd by quaint device;
Fair Isabella by herself misdone;
Prince Balthazar by Belimperia stabb'd;
The duke of Castile, and his wicked son,
Both done to death by old Hieronimo,
My Belimperia fallen, as Dido fell;
And good Hieronimo slain by himself:
Aye, these were spectacles to please my soul.
Now will I beg at lovely Proserpine,
That by the virtue of her princely doom,
I may consort my friends in pleasing sort,
And on my foes work just and sharp revenge.
I'll lead my friend Horatio thro' those fields,
Where never-dying wars are still indur'd.
I'll lead fair Isabella to that train
Where pity weeps, but never feeleth pain.
I'll lead my Belimperia to those joys,
That vestal virgins and fair queens possess.
I'll lead Hieronimo where Orpheus plays,
Adding sweet pleasure to eternal days.
But say, Revenge, (for thou must help, or none)
Against the rest how shall my hate be shewn?
Revenge. This hand shall hale them down to deepest hell,
Where 313 none but furies, bugs 314 and tortures dwell.
Ghost. Then sweet Revenge, do this at my request, Let me be judge, and doom them to unrest.
Let loose poor Titius from the vulture's gripe,
And let don Cyprian supply his room:
313 nought, 1618, 23, 33.
314 bugs] Terrors, So in Arden of Feversham:
Nay then let's go sleepe; when bugs and feares, "Shall kill our courages with their fancies worke."
Churchyard's Challenge, p. 180.
"And in their place came fearful bugges,
"As blacke as any pitche:
"With bellies big and swagging dugges,
"More loathsome then a witch."
Churchyard's Worthiness of Wales, p. 16. edit. 1776:
"Å kynd of sound, that makes a hurling noyse,
"To feare young babes, with brute of bugges and toyes."
Place don Lorenzo on Ixion's wheel,
And let the lovers' endless pains surcease;
Juno forgets old wrath, and grants him ease;
Hang Balthazar about Chimera's neck,
And let him there bewail his bloody love,
Repining at our joys that are above.
Let Serberine go roul the fatal stone,
And take from Sisiphus his endless moan.
False Pedringano, for his treachery,
Let him be dragg'd thro' boiling Acheron,
And there live, dying still in endless flames,
Blaspheming Gods and all their holy names.
Revenge. Then haste we down to meet thy friends and foes:
To place thy friends in ease the rest in woes:
For here, tho' death 315 hath end their misery.
I'll there begin their endless tragedy.
And now in woe your lives do lead:
Feeding on nought but dire annoys,
Thinking your griefs, all griefs exceed :
Assure yourselves it is not so:
Lo here a sight of greater woe.
Hapless Hieronimo was my name,
On whom fond fortune smiled long :
But now her flattering smiles I blame,
Her flattering smiles hath done me wrong.
Would I had died in tender years:
Then had not been this cause of tears.
I Marshall was in prime of years,
And won great honour in the field:
Until that age with silver'd hairs,
My aged head had overspread.
Then left I war and staid at home:
And gave my honour to my son.
Horatio, my sweet only child,
Prickt forth by fame's aspiring wings:
Did so behave him in the field,
That he prince Balthazar captive brings.
And with great honour did present
Him to the king incontinent.
The duke of Castile's daughter then
Desir'd Horatio to relate:
The death of her beloved friend,
Her love Andrea's woeful fate.
But when she knew who had him slain,
She vow'd she would revenge the same.
Then more to vex prince Balthazer,
Because he slew her chiefest friend:
She chose my son for her chief flower,
Thereby meaning to work revenge.
But mark what then did straight befall :
To turne my sweet to bitter gall.
Lorenzo then to find the cause,
Why that his sister was unkind:
At last he found within a pause,
How he might sound her secret mind.
Which for to bring well to effect:
To fetch her man he doth direct.
|